


epione

by cacowhistle



Series: ad astra per aspera [10]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, also theres plot stuff but we're here for the polar bear lets be real, healing time, techno gets an emotional support polar bear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacowhistle/pseuds/cacowhistle
Summary: The battle is won, but the scars still linger.Techno stands in the kitchen in the aftermath of everything, the next morning. He really shouldn’t be out of bed, he knows, but he’s going to fucking lose it if he has to sit still all day. He stares, numbly, down at the mug in his hands. He doesn’t remember what he wanted to make. Something warm, he thinks, to ease the icy numbness in his chest. Something warm, so he can make himself feel a little more alive.All he can think about is the awkward, uneven weight around his head.or;the fight is over, and now is the time for rest and recovery.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: ad astra per aspera [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060727
Comments: 16
Kudos: 245





	epione

The battle is won, but the scars still linger.

Techno stands in the kitchen in the aftermath of everything, the next morning. He really shouldn’t be out of bed, he knows, but he’s going to fucking lose it if he has to sit still all day. He stares, numbly, down at the mug in his hands. He doesn’t remember what he wanted to make. Something warm, he thinks, to ease the icy numbness in his chest. Something warm, so he can make himself feel a little more alive.

All he can think about is the awkward, uneven weight around his head.

If he stands perfectly still, he can pretend nothing is different. If he stares straight ahead and ignores the lightness of it all, it almost feels the same--it’s like the ghost of his braid rests against his back.

He turns his head at the sound of footsteps, and tears spring to his eyes despite himself at how unnatural the weight feels.

It’s just Wilbur, thankfully, who has seen him break far worse than this. Wilbur, who knows not to say anything, who simply moves forward with a sad, sympathetic hum, and wraps his arms around Techno’s torso, careful of the now-bandaged wound. Techno chokes back an upset little noise and hugs him back, tight enough he’s vaguely afraid he might hurt him.

Wilbur just murmurs reassuring nothings, bringing a hand up. It ghosts over the back of Techno’s head.

“Can I?” He says, quietly, voice hoarse. “I can even it out for you.”

Techno swallows, throat scratchy as he buries his face in Wilbur’s hair.

“Okay,” he rasps, and the two of them go to properly cut his hair.

(In the other room, Tommy remains tucked against Phil’s side, swaddled by one of his wings. They don’t say a word, listening to the soft, keening sob coming from the kitchen. Tommy’s expression is distracted, vaguely distraught. Phil wants to make it all better. He just wishes he knew how.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Tommy whispers, looking up at Phil.

Phil smiles, sadly, brushes the hair back from Tommy’s forehead. “In time,” he says, softly.

Tommy makes a dissatisfied little sound. But he leaves it at that.)

* * *

They settle in front of the fireplace, just like when they were kids--Techno sitting as close to cross-legged as he can get with his unguligrade legs, doing his best to sit still for Wilbur. He doesn’t need to try, this time--he spaces out almost as soon as he gets comfortable, at least until Wilbur properly touches his hair.

He chokes, a bit, going deathly still. Wilbur withdraws his hand with a concerned hum.

“We don’t have to,” he says, voice all raspy, and Techno makes a distraught sound in the back of his throat.

“I want to,” he replies, quietly. “Just--just do it.”

Wilbur makes a concerned little noise, but moves forward anyways. He begins to hum, then sing, softly, as he slowly works his way through Techno’s messy hair. It reminds him of when they were smaller, far more innocent, when Wilbur would brush and braid Techno’s hair and sing just like he does now, voice soft and low and sweet, the lullabye tones of Eden in his voice. It cracks a bit, now, and he’s a bit raspy from the shouting he did the day prior, but it’s still such a _Wilbur_ sound, it makes him want to cry.

(And Wilbur, seated behind him, combs through his hair and neatly trims it to even it out, leaving as much length as possible, before he begins to braid. The circumstances aren’t ideal, but already he has a style in mind for this shorter length.

Fury simmers in his gut at the sight of the scabbed-over wound on the back of Techno’s neck. He remembers the blood dripping from Quackity’s ears before he’d shot him through the center of his forehead, and despite the burning in his throat this morning, he doesn’t regret a thing.

It felt _good_ to scream. It meant they’d finally fucking hear him.)

Techno thinks, faintly, of old poets and stories of hardship, while sitting here in his little cottage with friends more akin to family. He is hurting, he knows, but he will remember the quiet moments in the midst of it all, surrounded by warmth and with hands he trusts working through such precious hair.

He remembers the old saying, that _even these things will be good to remember one day._ It is an oddly melancholy little thought, and he treasures it. He is allowed melancholy, he thinks, after the excitement of yesterday.

Maybe excitement is the wrong word. Trauma, perhaps, would fit better.

At some point, Tommy pads into the room--he recognizes the light, nervous footsteps, the unusually quiet greeting. It’s like he’s being tiptoed around, like they’re trying not to wake him, except he’s entirely awake and aware of everything. Techno is, at the very least, thankful he isn’t being his loud, annoying self right now. He’s pretty sure he would eclipse into an entire other state of being and go on a murderous rampage if _anyone_ raised their voice above a murmur.

Christ. Maybe not that. But Caedis would be getting more blood than she is right now.

Tommy settles down beside Techno, leaning against his shoulder. Wilbur grumbles, swatting at the back of his head, and Techno snorts, softly. He reaches up, Tommy sliding into his personal space with all of the attachment of a particularly clingy kitten. Techno welcomes it, too tired to shove him off, and the three of them sit there in their little pile as Wilbur hums and straightens out Techno’s hair. Techno begins running his fingers through Tommy’s mess of fluff and tangles just as Wilbur begins the second braid, and by the time he’s tied the two together in a crown about Techno’s head, Tommy is fast asleep against Techno’s chest, and Techno is tiredly leaning into Wilbur’s hands.

“I’m not your fuckin’ pillow,” Wilbur grumbles, though it’s good-natured.

Techno grunts something that’s supposed to sound like _deal with it,_ but it comes out more like a soft and pleased little whine as Wilbur smooths a hand over the bristled hair on the back of Techno’s neck.

He’s begun to drift off when he hears Phil’s footsteps, sees his dark feathers in the doorway.

“Phil,” Wilbur whines, softly, “I’m trapped.”

Techno hears Phil laugh, light and soft, before he sinks into sleep.

* * *

It’s odd, how he doesn’t quite notice something is off, at first. He should, all things considered. He’s standing in the ballroom of the old family home--the palace in the Antarctic Empire--dressed in his ratty old coat that’s been fixed three times over, all by different hands. He stares at the smooth, tiled stone floor beneath his bare feet. It almost feels too real, this mental reconstruction of his past.

A hand is extended in his direction, half-covered by a fingerless leather glove. The sight of it makes Wilbur’s gut churn with nausea.

He reaches out and takes it anyway.

He remembers, faintly, the evening Phil taught him to waltz--he wanted to impress a girl, and Phil had laughed and promised him a lesson. He remembers further lessons after that, him and Techno figuring out how to move fluidly to music. Perhaps that was really when they began to learn to fight together, too--moving in sync, making two movements into one.

Wilbur forces his mind away from those fond memories. He doesn’t want to associate them with the awful, faceless man before him.

He knows he must be dreaming, considering that neither him nor Dream have set foot in the Antarctic Empire’s ballrooms in years. There’s a hand on his waist and one entwined with his own hand, and the leather burns against the bare skin of his fingers, slips beneath the bloodstained shirt he wears, pressing against the strip of soft fluffy feathers around his waist. Wilbur shivers, panic blinding him as Dream leads the dance.

He hates how touchy his mind recalls Dream being. He’s always enjoyed having his prey where he can _control_ it.

“Let go of me,” he grits out, but there’s no magic behind it.

Dream grins, slow and awful, laughs like Wilbur’s the most amusing thing he’s ever seen.

“Easy, little songbird,” Dream croons, dipping him, catching his wrist with a vice-like grip. The cold edge of a blade presses to his throat. “I’ll make it quick.”

The metal slides against flesh, and Wilbur wakes up choking on his own breath.

He gets up, quiet as to not wake anyone else, padding out into the kitchen. He idles there, briefly, before thoughtlessly pushing open the front door and stepping out onto the porch.

The area is well-lit, so mobs are the least of his concerns as he steps out onto the cold wood. He should’ve grabbed a coat, he muses, bare feet stepping into soft, freezing snow. Maybe boots, as well--something warmer than sweatpants and a sweater and no shoes. He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself, and pushes his foot further into the snow as if it will prove he’s awake, he’s breathing, he’s _alive._ All it does is serve to make him more cold, and he withdraws his foot, gently setting the nearly numb extremity back against chilled spruce wood.

It’s an exercise in self-control as he slowly pads down the stairs, careful to avoid the larger piles of snow on the edges of the steps where Tommy scraped it aside, earlier this evening (morning? he doesn’t quite know what time it is, not really).

The chill that settles into his bones reminds him of being dead. He lets out a soft, rattling exhale at the familiarity.

He knows that staying out here like this for too long will hurt him. He almost wants to let it, to prove that he is no longer that cold, empty little ghost. That his skin is not sunken and grey and sallow, that his eyes are not dead and dull and dark. He wants to prove that there is blood beneath the skin and running through his veins, he wants to prove that there is a heartbeat in his chest and that he is _alive._

The cold sets in, and he shivers, and he _feels it,_ and he knows that he has nothing to prove.

The door opens, and there’s the click of boots against wood.

“Wilbur?” Tommy’s voice calls, soft and uncertain.

Wilbur hums in response, holding his hands out to catch snowflakes as they fall. White dusts his shoulders, the top of his head, mixing into the white and brown strands. He will be damp and uncomfortable later, but for now he marvels at how bright the snow seems to be, and how the silvers and whites that string themselves through his hair are just as bright in return.

It feels a little like divinity, this gift of water and of life. Cold, gentle life, drifting down like an offering from the sky. Wilbur drinks it in in silence, Tommy watching with wide, curious eyes from the porch.

“Astri,” Wilbur says, softly, “that’s the god’s name.”

He sees Tommy stiffen out of the corner of his eye. Pale hands wrap around the wooden banister of the porch steps.

“You should come inside,” Tommy says, and Wilbur hums his agreement.

“Probably,” he responds, reaching his hands up towards the falling snow again.

Tommy is silent for a few moments. “You’re being _weird.”_

Wilbur snorts, making his way towards the steps. “I’m just livin’ my life, bro, let me appreciate the snow in peace.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Tommy deadpans, “and below freezing, and you aren’t wearing shoes.”

“Sure is,” Wilbur murmurs, tipping his head back to look up at the stars once more as he joins Tommy on the porch.

“Why are you up?” Tommy asks, scowling.

Wilbur pauses, hands curling around the wooden banister. He lowers his gaze, staring out at the dark treeline, hesitating. He turns to the door.

“Let’s go inside,” he murmurs, and Tommy trails after him wordlessly.

He shuts the door behind them, effectively closing out the cold. His feet feel just about numb, his fingers just as cold, and he shudders as he approaches the fireplace. He rifles through a drawer for the matches, pausing as his fingers ghost over the box. It’s the very same one he kept in Pogtopia for their campfires. The same one he used to hold, contemplating setting the dynamite ablaze.

He shivers again. This time it is not from the cold. He strikes a match and lights the fireplace, before digging around in the drawers with trembling fingers. No cigarettes--he’s not sure why Techno or Phil would’ve kept any of his, truth be told. He does find his old pouch of soul sand--empty, but it smells strongly of the stuff, and that’s almost enough of a replacement.

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Fuckin’ hell, Wilbur, that smells like shit.”

“You liked it before, it smells sweet,” Wilbur says, flatly, shoving the pouch into his coat pocket and nudging the box of matches back into the drawer. “Do you know if Techno kept any of my other things from Pogtopia?”

There’s a few beats of silence. “... not other than your guitar. But you stole that back when you were, uh, dead.”

Wilbur groans, sinking down onto the couch. “Great. I’m going to the village tomorrow.”

Tommy settles into the space beside him, frowning. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“You’re not my dad,” Wilbur mutters, though he doesn’t stay pissed off for long, Tommy nestling in beside him. He settles an arm around his shoulders like that’s where he’s supposed to be. It _feels_ like it’s where he’s supposed to be.

“I don’t think he’d approve either,” Tommy deadpans, leaning against Wilbur’s shoulder. Wilbur snorts, at that.

“Probably not.”

They sit there in silence for a few long moments before Tommy speaks again, voice softer, tone gentle. “So why are you awake?”

Wilbur is quiet, contemplating. It isn’t something he wants to dump on Tommy, but… from what he recalls of exile, maybe it’s something for them to relate over. He sighs, softly, running his fingers through Tommy’s hair. The kid leans into the touch like a particularly needy cat. He’s always done that--Wilbur finds it rather endearing.

“Nightmares,” he admits, quietly. “I’ve been thinkin’ about Dream too much, lately.”

Tommy is quiet for so long that Wilbur is almost afraid he won’t say anything at all, until: “... me too.”

He can’t help the tiny, alarmed noise he makes at that, sitting up a little straighter to properly look down at Tommy. The kid blinks, sleepily, up at Wilbur. “What?”

“Are you okay?” Wilbur brushes the hair back from Tommy’s forehead. Tommy shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes.

“I mean, yeah?” He looks down at his hands, fidgeting with one of the blankets on the couch. “I just, uh. He spoke to me. When we went to get Techno. We talked for a minute.”

Wilbur goes still, at that. He hears Tommy’s breath catch in his throat, and tries to force himself to relax.

“Why, exactly,” Wilbur says, slowly, “did you not think to bring that up when we got home?”

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Tommy snaps back, defensive, “but Techno had a fucking hole in his chest.”

“You should have told us, Tommy,” Wilbur tries to keep his voice even, but he can’t help the way his hands tremble--they’ve been doing that a lot, lately, he’s not sure why. Physical reaction to strong emotion, maybe? Something about his body not being used to living?

“I’m _sorry_ , alright? There were more important things going on!” Tommy pulls back from Wilbur’s side, pulling his knees to his chest. “Fuck me for being more worried about Technoblade, god, why does it matter so much to you?”

“You,” Wilbur snaps with a furious whisper, mindful of the others asleep upstairs, jabbing a finger towards Tommy’s chest, “are just as important as Techno is. What if he’d fucking kidnapped you, Tommy? What if he’d hurt you? What if you didn’t come home last night because he was busy dropping your fucking body in the ocean? You need to _tell us these things,_ you stupid fucking--”

He only stops when he realizes Tommy isn’t moving, eyes wide with mute terror. Wilbur takes a breath.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says, softer.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy mumbles, not meeting his eyes.

“No apologizing.” Wilbur opens his arms up for a hug. Tommy hesitates, but takes it, burying his face in Wilbur’s chest. “What’d he say to you?”

Tommy is silent for a minute or two, leaned against Wilbur’s chest. He reaches up to run his hands through the kid’s hair, and Tommy lets out a soft, nervous sigh. Wilbur would do anything to keep this peace they’ve fought for, he would live in this moment forever, if he could. It’s quiet here, and it feels safe, and none of them are dead or dying, and isn’t that all he can ask for? Peace and quiet and to live out the rest of his days with the ones he loves?

The universe doesn’t seem to like that scenario very much, he thinks, grimly.

“He asked me to go with him. I told him I’d rather jump off the tower and let myself fall.” Tommy tilts his head a bit, eyes fixed on the fire in the fireplace.

“One of these days, I’m gonna kill him,” Wilbur grumbles, and the voices softly murmur their agreement. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Tommy shakes his head a little. “He said something else. About--about Tubbo.”

A chill runs down Wilbur’s spine. He hadn’t seen Tubbo during the fight. During… any of this, really. “... oh?”

Tommy swallows, takes a shaky breath, grip on Wilbur’s sweater tightening. “He--he said he would ‘send my regards to the vault.’ I don’t--I think Tubbo’s in trouble, Wilbur.”

“Hey,” Wilbur murmurs, shushing Tommy as he makes a wounded, scared little noise, “hey, it’s okay. He’s gonna be okay, Tommy, we’ll--we’ll find out what happened. We’ll help him.”

“I miss him,” Tommy croaks, burying his face in Wilbur’s chest again, “I just wanna go home, Wilby.”

Wilbur brings his arms around, hugs Tommy tight to his chest.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Tommy’s head, burying his nose in his hair. “I know.”

* * *

Tubbo, quite frankly, is bored as hell.

This cell isn’t the worst thing in the world--it’s not really cramped, just kind of small, and the obsidian walls aren’t exactly the nicest thing to sit against. He’s got a bed, at the very least, and Sam has been kind enough to deliver him most of the things he asks for. He thinks he feels bad--not that he can see Sam’s face when he enters, due to the mask, but he does his best to make Tubbo feel better, and that’s enough for him.

He isn’t allowed anything that could harm other people or help him escape in any way. He’s taken to taking apart a rubix cube and putting it back together again. It’s difficult without any tools, but it’s taken up a lot of his time and kept him mostly entertained when he isn’t being visited by Sam.

Dream hasn’t shown up yet. He isn’t sure if he wants it to stay that way.

The man scares him, truth be told. More than Schlatt or Wilbur ever did.

“Sam,” he calls through the lava, “are you there?”

There’s a pause. Tubbo is almost afraid he’s alone, for a few brief moments, until he hears Sam clear his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, “what do you need?”

“I just--” Tubbo pauses. “Am I allowed to just talk to you, big man?”

Another awful pause, and Tubbo almost wants to take it back. Maybe he’s not allowed to--maybe he’ll get in trouble for trying to talk.

“Sure,” Sam says. Tubbo breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Okay,” he says, quietly, before raising his voice a bit. “I just--I mean, I’m really bored. There’s nothing to do in here. And I…” he trails off, sitting down next to the lava.

“... I miss my friends, Sam, are--are people allowed to visit?”

Sam is quiet, again, for longer this time. Tubbo thinks he hears a shaky exhale, over the sound of the lava bubbling.

“I can make arrangements,” he says, and Tubbo perks up, a bit.

“Thanks, Sam.”

There’s silence for a few moments. Tubbo stares at the lava, frowning a bit as he thinks of Tommy. He’d promised Tommy they’d go sailing. They can’t very well do that from here.

And that’s another thing he misses. _Gods,_ he misses sailing, he misses being out on the wide open seas with the Captain and Niki and the first mate, Miss Sally--the fishing trips he took with Puffy, before things started to go bad, he misses those as well. He misses all of it, the ocean and the community and just… all of it.

“Sam,” he says, “have you ever gone sailing?”

He tells Sam stories about his adventures until nightfall.

* * *

“What,” Wilbur says, standing in the doorway, “is that.”

Technoblade looks up from the book he’s reading, seated on the floor. “Book about Greek mythology.”

Wilbur raises his eyebrows, an incredulous look on his face. “... I meant the bear, Techno.”

He blinks, a hand settling in the white fur of the baby polar bear half asleep in his lap. “Oh, his name’s Steve.”

“Why is he in our house?”

“My house,” Techno corrects, earning a scoff and a _whatever._ “And he can go where he wants.”

Wilbur sighs, burying his face in his hands. “You can barely take care of yourself as is, and you want to take care of a bear?”

“It can’t be harder than taking care of Tommy,” Techno deadpans, setting his book aside. Wilbur snorts, rolling his eyes.

He crosses the room to sit in front of Techno, reaching forward to gently scratch behind the bear’s ears. He growls, softly, in the same way Techno does when he’s exhausted and feeling especially vulnerable, and Wilbur can’t help the way he croons, softly. He’s soft, and Wilbur has to admit he’s pretty cute.

“You shown dad yet?” Wilbur murmurs, gaze flicking up to meet Techno’s. He shakes his head, a bit.

“Was his idea, though,” Techno says, ducking his head. He avoids Wilbur’s gaze. “Said it might be a good idea to take care of an animal. Might be a good… _distraction.”_

There’s a few beats of silence, before Wilbur barks out a laugh. “You got yourself an _emotional support polar bear?”_

Techno swats at his shoulder, lightly. “His name is _Steve_ and he is a member of the _family,_ and you will treat him as such.”

“Of course,” Wilbur says, stifling his laughter with a hand, “so sorry, Steve.”

The bear grunts, softly, pushing his cold, wet nose against Wilbur’s fingers. He laughs, softly, musical and sweet as he brushes his fingers back over his snout. Techno looks pleased, and Wilbur takes pride in the fact that he’s one of very few to see the mighty Technoblade this way--hair tied back in a loose, high ponytail, wearing sweatpants and a sweater stolen from Wilbur’s closet, glasses on the bridge of his nose. He looks peaceful. Wilbur knows how hard he’s fought for this peace.

He just hopes they manage to keep it, this time.

* * *

It’s when Wilbur and Tommy aren’t around, Techno allows himself to hurt a little more.

They’re out at the village today--Wilbur won’t tell them what for, exactly, but Techno can guess, judging by how he asked after Techno’s soul sand supply. He doesn’t really give a damn what Wilbur does with his newfound vitality, and while Phil seems to disapprove, he doesn’t really argue against it either. Regardless, Wilbur and Tommy aren’t here, and Techno is letting himself sink into Phil’s arms and wings with an agitated whine.

“You alright?” Phil sounds semi-amused, semi-concerned, wings coming around to support Techno’s weight.

“Side hurts,” he grunts, burying his face in Phil’s hair. Phil hums sympathetically, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Techno’s ear.

“I’m sorry, mate. Anything I can do?”

“Do we have any more golden apples?” He lifts his head a bit, peering over his glasses at the shorter man. Phil frowns a bit.

“Unless Tommy took them all, yeah, we should. Here, sit, I’ll go look.”

Techno sinks down into a chair without complaint, though he feels ten times colder when Phil draws back, wings folding neatly behind his back. His tail whips back and forth, before he coils it around one of his legs to force it to lay still, watching Phil head down into the basement.

He’s been… tired, lately. Both of them have been. It’s understandable, really--between the attack and Techno waking up throughout the night over the past few days, they haven’t been getting as much sleep as they should be.

He just doesn’t want Wilbur and Tommy to worry. Half because they _shouldn’t,_ they should be more worried about themselves, and half because he _hates_ looking so fucking vulnerable in front of anyone other than Phil. But here, in the comfort of his own house, with only Phil and Steve the polar bear to witness it, he lets himself break down a bit more.

It’s not until Phil is murmuring reassurances and gently pulling his hands away that Techno even realizes he’d tangled his fingers in his hair. A warm, soft weight is put into his lap, and he sinks his hands into Steve’s fur. It’s better than tearing fingers through his hair, trying to give himself some reason to justify the pain he feels at the cut strands.

“Come on,” Phil says, softly, “let’s get you back into bed, mate. You really shouldn’t be up.”

Some part of him wants to snap back, prove otherwise, but he _knows_ Phil is right, and he hates it. The healing gash in his side burns with every movement, so Techno allows Phil to guide him back upstairs and into bed once he’s had the golden apple. It takes a few minutes, and Techno has to stop to get out an awful coughing fit that leaves him breathless and shivering--he’s come down with a fever, or something like that, after all the trauma his body’s gone through over the past few days.

It’s only when he’s settled into bed that he lets himself give in to how gentle Phil is being right now.

Being taken care of like this… it isn’t the worst thing in the world. He even… kind of, maybe, likes it a little bit. Not that he’d tell anyone that, of course, but… it’s nice, to be cared about.

He still hurts, a bone-deep ache, but he manages to drift off, Phil humming all the while, Steve curled up with his nose buried in Techno’s chest.

* * *

Fundy sits on the edge of the docks. It’s about half past two in the morning. He’s been out here a while, he thinks, staring out at the horizon, legs dangling over the dark, murky, ice-cold water. He doesn’t really remember. Everything is fuzzy, at the moment.

For the most part.

_Wilbur is alive._

There’s still blood on his hands, under his nails. He can smell it, just under the sickeningly strong scent of sea salt, the coppery, tangy smell of life. There’s still dried blood caked along his cheek, from his ear to his lower jaw. The cut has since scabbed over, the nick in his ear has stopped its bleeding, face gone numb from the wind whipping at it. If he moves it, slightly, he feels the sting of the wound. If he sits still, it’s like nothing’s wrong at all.

_Wilbur is alive._

He stares down into the ice-cold, pitch black water beneath his feet. It’s calm, tonight, lapping at the docks quietly. If he fell in, would anyone notice? Would anyone see? Would he be dragged back out, or would he have to drag himself back to shore on his own? He’s alone, out here. It’s dark, there could be monsters--even if they’ve learned to stay away from the area, there are always at least a few. If he died out here, would anyone notice the next morning? He’s got two lives left, maybe this death wouldn’t even mean anything. Maybe he’d respawn at home with the weight of two lives in his soul, and it would all be fine.

_Wilbur is alive._

His hands clench into fists. He wants to dig his claws into Quackity’s flesh again, drag him down into the depths by his side, make him feel just how badly this all hurts, for him. He’d dragged him away from his father and his grandfather as they ran, a few nights ago, and he’s tempted to drag Quackity again, into the depths and further. He’ll claw his way down to Hell with him in tow, if he has to. He didn’t want any of this, he just wanted… what did he _want?_ He doesn’t know.

Gods, when did this all get so fucked up?

_Wilbur is alive._

Fundy gets to his feet, decisive and shivering. He marches past L’manburg, up the hill towards the nether portal. Part of him says to grab armor, his weapons and tools, cleaner clothes. He feels blood dripping down his cheek, against his throat--now that he’s moving, the wounds aren’t happy with him. There’s a sting in his leg where someone had caught him with their blade, earlier. He doesn’t even remember who. He doesn’t remember a lot of today, truth be told. His feet hurt when he stands up. He walks anyway.

Covered in blood and shaking like a leaf, Fundy walks along the prime path alone.

_Wilbur is **alive.**_

Fundy doesn’t return to L’manburg the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading! if you like what i do, check me out on tumblr, twitter, & twitch @ cacowhistle!


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